(On a bus in Kensington, BBC staffer Arthur Calder Marshall ‘heard’ a fellow-passenger remark that war had broken out in Debenham’s. As the bus neared the store, Arthur, half-hoping for a scoop, got off only to see a newsvendor’s poster announcing ‘War in the Lebanon’. Here is one of my Calder Marshall moments…)

Ken Dodd dead, the newsman said.Leicester police investigatemotorway service station:grim find in back of van.Strange, I mused, as one does:he usually dies on stage.Is this Doddy’s final curtain?

It had been a scorching day;all windows were tight closed,Death due to heat exhaustion.so said the RSPCA.Without compunction,as one does, I thoughthe should have had the strength

or gumption to open one.Perhaps he couldn’t reach.Why was he there? I wondered,as one does. Dossing downfrom sleep to death unknowing;or suicidally inclined tofinally pull down his blind?

Why the RSPCA? Paramedics on strikeagain? Then a summary enlightened me:how absurd! I’d misheard. Not Ken Dodd.It was ten dogs that died. I sighed.Glad that Doddy hadn’t died?Sad for those hot doggies fried?Or maybe just because. As one does.

(The cardiac recovery ward was short-staffed, struggling along with half its normal staffing , so Sister said. Contemplating the ceiling and infinity. I wasn’t inclined to poetry at the time but the good old subconscious filed away an idea…)

Hello, you Bed Thirteen?Sister said I should come andtalk to you as I’ve nothingbetter to do. I’m on workexperience. you know.MaybeI might be a nurse one day.Excuse me. You’re rather faint?You’re ‘not feeling very well?’I see, of course, wouldn’t be, would you? That’s why you’re here.If you don’t mind me sayingso, you look a little queer.And Bed Thirteen, well, I mean –Twelve A would sound lots better,don’t you think? If I wasIn Bed Thirteen, heaven know,I’d be turning up my toes.But don’t let me worry you.You’re ‘going to die?’ Not now,wait till a real nurse is here.‘Where are they?’ At lunch, I guess,left this place a right old mess.‘Who’s in charge?’ Me, I suppose.You do look funny! Gobsmacked.With your jaw dropped open, andyour eyes rolled right up like that.Anyway, if you haven’t died,you haven’t lived, they say: the best night’s sleep you’ve had in years…(that’s a joke…) Well, please yourself.I must go. All the best. If I were you, I’d get some rest.

Thoughts are free, who can guess them?They flee by like nocturnal shadows.No man can know them, no hunter can shoot themwith powder and lead: Thoughts are free!

I think what I want, and what delights me,still always reticent, and as it is suitable.My wish and desire, no one can deny meand so it will always be: Thoughts are free!And if I am thrown into the darkest dungeon,all this would be futile work,because my thoughts tear all gatesand walls apart: Thoughts are free!

So I will renounce my sorrows forever,and never again will torture myself with some fancy ideas.In one’s heart, one can always laugh and jokeand think at the same time: Thoughts are free!

I love wine, and my girl even more,Only I like her best of all.I’m not alone with my glass of wine,my girl is with me: Thoughts are free!

~~~~~~~~~~

Hans Litten read out this poem while incarcerated in a concentration camp in Nazi Germany

(Described as perhaps the Island’s sole surviving native thinker, Ealish is writing a verse epic: The Will of Tynwald. A Child’s Guide to Manx Politics. She lives in Bride, breeds Salukis and rides Suzukis)